Never Die Alone (A Bentz/Montoya Novel Book 8) (14 page)

Maybe she would be better going after his throat again, or aiming for his eyes to blind and disable him.

If she had the guts to do it.

Of course she held out the hope that her twin had gotten away, that even now, Zoe was safe and directing the police to the cabin. But Chloe couldn’t count on it. No, she had to fight this monster if he ever came back.

Another fear wiggled snakelike through her brain. What if the freak never returned? What if he just left her here to die, to waste away in this dark, dank prison? What if he got killed and never gave up the location? And maybe Zoe wouldn’t recall where this crappy cabin was . . . oh, sweet Jesus. Her insides curdled at the thought.

But the dingy, moist walls seemed to shrink in on her and she knew that she’d go mad if she had to stay here much longer.

Swallowing back her fear, she clutched the ragged fragment from the broken light and prayed she’d have the strength to take the bastard on, to actually kill the freak and find a way out.

Tears welled in her eyes.

Fear twisted her guts.

She wanted to fall back into her own weakness, into her position of being the shy and emotionally frail sister that she’d been for twenty-one years. It was a comfortable role. This new position of taking care of herself to the point of murder just wasn’t who she was.

She was shaking, trembling at the thought.

Oh, geez, she nearly peed herself she was so scared.

“God help me.” Closing her eyes, she dug deep. Her inner voice nagging. She had to do whatever it would take to save herself. And she would, damn it, even if it killed her.

C
HAPTER
14

“D
id you know Arianna?” Brianna asked as a roar went up from the bar, indicating that one of the baseball teams shown on the screens had scored.

“Not really. More like knew of her,” he said with a shrug.

Now he seemed uncomfortable.

She let the subject of Arianna drop.

For now.

Brianna picked up her glass. “You know, you’re about the last person I ever expected to go into law enforcement.”

When he seemed about to argue, she waved a hand. “I know, the information officer is probably just the mouthpiece for the department, but still . . .” She studied him more intently. “I always figured you’d end up, I don’t know, a cowboy, rodeo rider, maybe an Air Force pilot or something. Navy Seal? But, you know, something a little more dangerous, I guess, and physical. Certainly not a desk job.”

He tapped the tip of his bottle against her glass, then took a long pull. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Just an observation.” She took a sip of wine, felt it slide easily down her throat, leaving a hint of cherries. Yeah, this was a good idea. Maybe. She held the stem in her fingers, watched the wine’s “legs” appear on the bowl of her glass. “I guess I just never thought of you as the buttoned-down type.”

“Buttoned down?”

“In high school, you were a little . . .”

“Edgy?” He took another swig of beer and she watched his Adam’s apple move just above his open collar. “One of those dark, sexy rebel types?”

“Oh, right.” Good God, was he flirting? Teasing? “Well, okay maybe.” Then she grinned and took another swallow. “Or maybe not.”

“Mrs. Gillespie would probably die if she heard that Jase Bridges was a reporter,” he said. “Or, God forbid, hoping to join the police department.”

“Too late. I think she’s already dead,” she said, remembering the woman she’d considered ancient at the time, though Edna Gillespie had probably only been in her early sixties when Brianna had attended high school. Not exactly ready for the grave, but back then, anyone over thirty had seemed really old. Mrs. Gillespie had been sharp and demanding, a no-nonsense teacher. Brianna had dreaded her class.

His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “She always told me that if I didn’t, oh, wait, what was it?” He paused, the beer halfway to his mouth, his brows arched for a second, then he snapped the fingers of his free hand. “I got it. If I didn’t ‘mind my p’s and q’s’, whatever the hell they are, I’d end up in prison or worse. Yeah, that was it. The dire warning.”

“Guess she was wrong.”

“Shhh.” He leaned closer. “Don’t let her hear you.”

She felt her heart warm to him and blamed it on the wine that was going down much too easily, her glass nearly empty. Nonetheless, she wasn’t going to let her thoughts be muddled by the semidark ambiance of the bar, or a glass of wine, or the fact that she’d always found this man intriguing.

“She didn’t much like me.”

“Always nice when a teacher is so supportive.”

“Well, I did give her hell,” he admitted, not appearing the least bit sorry. “It really pissed her off that I could cut class all week and still manage to pass her tests in Senior English.” Another swallow. “Come to think of it, I was a shit.”

“We all were, but,” she admitted, the wine making her bold, “my mother did warn us, me and my sister, about you Bridges boys. She claimed you were trouble.”

“She was right. Probably best to avoid.” There was something heavy in his words and he looked away.

“You knew Arianna, right? She said she’d hung out with you a couple of times.”

A slight hesitation. “I’d met her. In a group. With my brother.”

“Mom would have grounded her for life if she’d found out.”

“We were that bad?”

“All boys were bad. You two?” She held up a hand and tilted it up and down. Maybe yes, maybe no. “Probably the worst of the lot.”

He laughed a bit, but it sounded hollow and the humor didn’t find his eyes.

“And it obviously didn’t work if Arianna met you way back when and I’m here now.” As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. What was she, a teen on a first date? Here she was, letting the worries and stress of the last couple of days melt away because an old high-school crush had invited her for a drink, probably to get information from her for a story he smelled. All this while Selma’s daughters were missing, their fate unknown, perhaps even now in the clutches of a deranged killer. Or worse, already dead.

The warm ambiance drained away.

“Again, don’t tell them about me,” he advised.

“No worries. Mom and Dad are gone,” she said. “She got cancer and he . . . even though he wasn’t all that old, just kind of wasted away and had a stroke.” She frowned at her glass. “I can’t help thinking the stress, you know, of losing a child, cost them years.”

He looked away for a moment, as if considering something, then said, “You know, since we’re talking about high school and all, I remember you.”

That surprised her. “I look a lot like Arianna. I mean, I looked like her back then.”

He shook his head. “Not identical.”

“No, but close.”

“I could tell the difference.”

“Could you?”

“Mmm.” Nodding, he added, “I always figured you’d marry a rich man and sip mint juleps on the back porch of a huge mansion that overlooked a pool or a lake or whatever.” Another swig. “Something like that.”

“But you didn’t even know me.”

“Everyone knew you, Brianna. You had a rep before you stepped across the threshold of Monroe High.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were stating a truism anyone would understand. “You were a rich kid. All the privileges. Your dad was a professor at Tulane, right?” He popped a peanut into his mouth.

She nodded, though his account was a slight misconception. The meager wealth in their family had come from her mother’s inheritance.

“So, I figured you’d go to college, find Mr. Right at a sorority dance or something. He’d end up being a lawyer or a doctor or maybe even a politician, and you’d settle down and have a passel of kids.”

“As I said, you didn’t know me.”

“I paid attention.”

“To a freshman girl?”

Again, the crooked smile.

Again, the stupid racing of her heart. Oh, God, she hoped to high heaven she wasn’t blushing.

“I paid attention to all freshman girls.” He hesitated, thought a second. “Really, come to think of it, to all girls. It’s a guy thing. Isn’t that what women say?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, and even chuckled a little. She was surprised that he’d noticed her; hadn’t dared believed he’d even registered that she’d walked the same overly polished halls of the same school he barely attended.

“You ever marry?”

The question surprised her, but it probably shouldn’t have. Shaking her head, she studied the dark depths of her wineglass. “I got close once,” she said. “I was engaged.”
Briefly. Like for ten seconds!

“What happened?”

“Didn’t work out. I got cold feet.”

“Runaway bride?”

“More like never-made-it-near-the-altar bride,” she said. Then, refusing to think about that time in her life, she threw it back at him. “You?”

“No, never even got close.” He scratched the back of his neck. “There were a couple of girls, well, women who might’ve worked out, but I don’t know . . .” He paused, leaning against the back of the booth, and she guessed that he did know but was equivocating to avoid discussing a subject that bothered him. “I guess I didn’t have much of a role model for a relationship. My old man raised me. Never knew my mother, and my grandparents . . .” He shrugged. “They were just old, you know? Then again”—he reached for his bottle—“maybe I just never found the right woman.”

“Oh, I smell a cop-out,” she said, hiding the fact that her pulse leaped whenever their eyes met. She buried her nose in her glass.

“Probably.” He cocked an eyebrow. “So you’re single?”

Very.
“Yeah. Sorry, no rich husband is at home in some grand antebellum home with a pitcher of martinis. No, wait, you said mint juleps, right? Well, he’s not there with those either. And by the way, that grand Southern mansion? It’s a little two-bedroom cottage.” She set her glass on the table. “Guess you were wrong about me.”

“Then that makes two of us, doesn’t it?” he said with an ever-widening grin that told her he’d been lying to her about his supposed fantasy of her life. He hadn’t really cared about her life, but wanted her to realize her preconceived notions of him were as false as his might be. The fact that he wasn’t all that interested stung more than it should have, but the truth was he just hadn’t liked her calling him out on his high-school bad rep crap. Fair enough.

“Okay, I get it. Sorry. You’re a reporter. On the straight and narrow. My bad.”

He laughed a little, a deep chuckle she remembered from her youth. “Just not too straight,” he said with a wink that caused her silly heart to leap. “So, are you gonna let me help you with the missing Denning girls?”

“So that you can whitewash Bentz and keep track of me? Isn’t that what this is all about? Damage control. So you can look good for the cops and land that job with the department.”

He let out a sigh. “What do you think?”

She met his gaze and was reminded again of the boy he’d once been, a teenager who had never let anyone control him. “I don’t know.”

“I told you, I want to work with you.”

“For an exclusive?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “That wouldn’t hurt,” he admitted. “Sure. But I do really want to find out what happened to your friend’s daughters. And didn’t Selma Denning say something about you reaching out, getting the word out?”

“She did.” She nodded. “But there’s a difference between information and exploitation.”

“A fine line, but I’m willing to walk it to help those girls,” he said as if he meant it. “So, to answer your question, it’s not just about me reporting the story.”

“Good.” She hoped he wasn’t lying, but couldn’t quite believe him. Besides, maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was a good thing. His story, through the print newspaper and online services of the
Observer,
would notify the public. It would help spread the word, hopefully catch the eye of someone who’d seen Zoe or Chloe Denning. The more she thought about it, the more collaboration with Jase Bridges seemed a good thing.

“What about the girls’ father?” he asked.

“Still around. Divorced from the mom. He’s remarried with kids. A new family. Well, sort of. He married Selma’s niece.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, major ouch. Anyway, I’m sure Carson’s concerned about his daughters, but not much support to Selma.”

Jase nodded, taking it all in.

Brianna sat back and let her tired eyes go fuzzy for a minute as she studied his dark silhouette in the muted light. Could she trust him? Lord knew she needed someone with some connections to try and find the twins. So far, the police hadn’t been much help, Selma was a wreck and Brianna was fast running out of options. Someone had to do something. But it was hard to believe that the someone she was hoping for would end up being Jase Bridges.

The waitress returned with the check and when she reached for her purse, he reminded her that she’d insisted he buy. After a brief protest, she let Jase pay the bill.

“This way you owe me,” he said. He dropped a few bills on the table, then found a business card in his wallet. “Here. You can call me on my cell. Any time.” He slid the card across the table.

“Any time?”

“Day or night.”

“Three a.m.?”

Again the flash of a smile, a quick spark of humor flashing in his eyes. “Try me.”

“Promise you won’t bite my head off?”

“Never.”

“We’ll see.” She fished in her purse, found her keys, and made her way to the door.

Outside the air was heavy, rain threatening, though the temperature was still hovering near seventy. Cars and trucks rumbled down the street.

“I’ll talk to Selma.”

“You know where to find me,” he said as they crossed to her car.

“Yeah.” She unlocked the Honda with her keyless remote, then slid inside to leave him wedged in the open space with one hand on the top of her door and the other on the roof, preventing her from yanking her door shut.

“Then call. I’m available.”

From inside her car, she glanced up at him quickly, expecting a grin to indicate the double entendre, but his face held a guileless expression that she couldn’t read. For a second she got lost in his gaze.

“Okay,” she said, noting that she sounded a little breathless. God, she was an idiot. “Got it.”

He tapped twice on the roof, stepped away, and she, all the time trying to get her stupid racing pulse under control, tugged the door firmly shut.

She flipped on the A/C even though it would take several minutes to blow cool air, then went about trying to pull out without nicking either of the two monster pickups that had wedged her in. After several attempts, inching backward and forward, she was able to finally pull away from the curb just as her cell phone went off. Ignoring the call, she checked her rearview and saw Jase Bridges standing where she’d left him, his hands in his pockets as he stared after her.

What was his deal? she wondered.

Why did she feel that he wasn’t being completely honest with her, wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up?

“Because he’s one of the Bridges boys,” she told herself as cool air began to blow from the car’s vents. Then, silently, she added,
And you’re paranoid, anyway, Brianna. You don’t trust anyone. Least of all a boy, no, make that a man, who might have the ability to turn you inside out.

Still, there was something about Jase Bridges that caused her to think he knew more than what he was saying, that he had his own agenda. Something hidden. Something she couldn’t put her finger on and certainly didn’t trust.